


Karaoke Queen

by faithtastic



Series: The Queer Bitch Project [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drag Queens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2377628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um... wouldn't a certain blond vampire make a great bitter old drag queen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke Queen

Spike tried to avert his eyes from the bare buttocks that were gyrating in time to the Backstreet Boys in front of his face. He sighed. Bloody podium dancers. Funny how twinkies never changed wherever you went. Always getting their arse cheeks out in public. No class at all, especially the colonials. Anyway, he wasn't here to admire the view; he was here on business and, bloody hell, where was Xander? He just hoped it wouldn't be like the last time they'd gone out to a club. The stupid bugger had made the monumental mistake of putting the wind up some lesbians with a bad joke. Then they'd had to leg it down the street - in full drag - with a pack of dykes on their trail, determined to castrate them both. So while he was teaching Xander the basics of movement and poise, he'd also have to give the dimwit a crash course in Homo Etiquette 101, lesson one being don't take the piss out of our sapphic sisters.

Weaving through the packed dance floor - all fucking show-offs with big hair and tiny t-shirts and most of 'em E'd out their faces - Spike spotted his new assistant at the bar, downing a bloody mary. They were in civvies tonight because being in drag kind of blows your chances of remaining incognito. They also didn't want to run into those dykes again... So the little twerp was wearing one of those hideous shirts he was so fond of and baggy khaki pants, looking painfully heterosexual. Spike was beginning to wonder if the poof wasn't actually straight - no self-respecting queer would be seen dead in that getup. That or Xander was so far in the closet he was in bloody Narnia 'cause he still hadn't chucked that Anya bird. Then again, maybe he enjoyed being treated like a streak of piss - he'd dated Cordelia after all.

Now *there* was someone who had all the makings of a fag hag.

Cordy was a poof's wet dream, well... comparatively speaking. She was a bitch of the highest order, dishing out scathing comments to rival La Davis at the height of her powers. She was a bit of a high school tramp, changing her beaus as often as her underwear, and she had impeccable taste in all matters sartorial. No wonder sad, misguided Xander was so enthralled by her. The little ponce wanted to *be* Cordelia Chase.

Spike sidled up to the bar, grabbing the glass out of Xander's hand. "Look you, this is strictly recon tonight. I'm not fucking carrying you home again."

"Hey, I said I'd pay for the shoes," Xander pouted, referring to the diamonte studded stilettos he'd broken when the heel had got stuck in a drain while being chased by the raging lesbians.

"Bloody right you will, I'm taking it out of your allowance," Spike muttered and signalled to the barman. "Gin and bitter lemon, luv."

"Bitch," Xander huffed under his breath.

Spike arched an eyebrow, a little hoist he'd copied from Captain Janeway from that Star Trek program that Xander liked to watch. Katherine Hepburn in space, it was. Xander fancied the helmsman Tom Paris though Spike much preferred Ensign Kim. Great little drag artiste he'd make. It had the desired effect anyway, because twatface squirmed and mumbled something about 'recon' and shuffled away. As long as it wasn't the kind of recon that involved Xander being propositioned in the gents again.

Taking a sip from his gin, Spike nodded companionably to the bloke standing beside him at the bar, some bear with more facial hair than was strictly necessary. He gave Spike the once over, curled his lip under the mass of gristle, and turned away. Fine. Be like that. Arsehole. Then he noticed the barman was looking at him. Little sod winked at him. Spike gave a come hither look and the barman grinned, leaning across the bar thinking his luck was in tonight.

"Know anything about a Shirley Bassey frock, mate? 1976? Las Vegas?" Spike shouted, above the refrains of a dance remix of that anorexic French Canadian freak's My Heart Will Go On.

A queeny voice came from behind, with the impatient clicking of fingers. "Francoise! Back to work!"

Spike turned slowly, planting his best Joan Crawford sneer on his face."' Ello, ducks."

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Sid Vacuous. Come to see how a club is really run?" Lorne preened, smoothing down his gold lame suit. The prat still hadn 't worked out that even Liberace couldn't carry off gold lame and he didn't have green skin.

Spike pushed off from the bar, squaring his shoulders. Yeah, he could do the butch routine when it was really called for but usually he didn't like to break a fingernail. "How's about, you give me back the dress - and the earrings - and I won't rearrange your face, you thieving scum."

The anagogic demon gave a nervous little laugh. "Dress? What dress?"

Spike sucked in his cheeks ever more, a little something he picked up from Marlene Dietrich in '20s. She'd been a great fan of him and Dru's show, used to send them flowers after every performance in Berlin. Probably 'cause she fancied Dru or him, not quite sure which. Ah, those were the days... "The Bassey dress. I know you took it and I want it back."

Lorne gave a dismissive wave. "Well, I don't have it, sweetie."

He moved to walk away but Spike caught him by the arm. "Who does then?" Spike asked, enunciating every word with crystal clear precision.

The little green bastard brought one limp wrist to his chest defensively. "Why don't you ask Angelica? She's been swanning around town with a new girlfriend on her arm, Wendy I think she's called. Thinks she's Joan Collins, just because she's *British* and posh."

Spike grabbed Lorne by the scruff of the neck. "Alright, I'll pay them a social call. But if I find out that you've been lying to me. Well, I'll let the whole effing world know that your real name is Dwayne."

Lorne gasped in a horror, and Spike released him. With a smirk he smoothed the demon's lapels. Reaching for his glass, Spike downed the gin and looked around for Xander. On cue, the little woofter stumbled up to them, sporting an inhumanely large hickey, verging on the disfiguring. "C'mon, luv, let's go. This place is shite."

Xanded nodded mutely, gingerly clutching his neck and hoping those guys with the beards and leather chaps weren't following him.


End file.
